by Rita Hestand
John studied her a moment, "Is that the real reason you want to go?"
"Yes, of course. I haven't seen them in over a year!"
"I'll consider it and let you know. A ticket that far would be costly."
"I've not asked for much…"
"We'll talk later of this." He assured her.
But they never did. He never bought her the ticket.
Thinking back to the earlier days, when she and John first married and moved from Missouri to Texas seemed so long ago.
For nearly three years she lived with John and two years with his wives. There seemed no escape for her. She had learned to endure their life together, but she was not happy. She did like the women and the child, but the life they led was not right as far as she was concerned, and she'd do almost anything to get out of this marriage.
Then the Comanche came and took her.
She remembered thinking as she lay sprawled across the Comanche horse, that this was her escape from her Mormon husband. She didn't fight them, she just lay across that horse, thinking of what might come. It didn't seem to matter at that point. She'd married John in good faith, but he'd destroyed all her hopes and dreams with his lies.
She remembered that day well, she was alone in the fields, working, when she was suddenly surrounded by Indians. They yelped and hooped and hollered but she wasn't afraid. No, she was more afraid of slowly dying here on this farm. The Comanches didn't scare her.
It happened so quickly, they merely picked her up, threw her on a horse and rode off with her. She heard shots in the background, but she didn't know if John was alive or dead. And the saddest part was, she didn't really care, at the time. But it would be a relief one way or another now to know if he was alive. If she were still married to him.
She remembered them taking her to Indian Territory where she lived and slaved for them for seven long months. It wasn't the men that hurt her there, it was the women. They were cruel beyond belief. They pushed her down, slapped her, and spit on her. There was never a kind word for her. They resented any brave that looked upon her fondly. In that regard she was thankful.
Chapter Three
Then one day as the Comanche were traveling to a new place to build their homes, Bear Foot ran across them. Bear Foot was an Apache brave. He was a big man, but he smiled some and he seemed to have an even disposition. When he discovered her, he made a trade, and she was soon on her way to Arizona with his small band of Indian friends. The Comanche had never accepted her into their tribe and they were eager to get rid of her.
Bear Foot spoke some English and they were able to communicate to some degree. He seemed a bit more pleasant than the Comanche.
But the Arizona country was much different, the heat was drier, with fewer trees and lots of cactus. A few old cottonwoods dotted the creek beds. Frogs croaked loudly. Naomi gazed at the country and felt a heavy heart. Arizona was a land that could bring tears to your eyes, the hot undying deserts and then the contrasts of beautiful mountains in the distance that seem to beckon one.
Her life had been chaos since she left her family in Missouri. She sighed, Missouri was a long way away. She doubted she'd ever see it again.
She seen a lot of country since leaving her home in Missouri, much more than her family had ever seen.
It was pretty in a lonely sort of way here, as she could gaze out the door and see the beautiful mountains in the distance, but her life had been in turmoil for the past four years. It was hard to recognize beauty any longer. She missed the trees of Missouri and Texas. Yet this land seemed to echo something deep within her.
And sadly, she realized Red Elk was right about, the whites would never accept her back. And she belonged nowhere as far as she could see. She had no future.
"Well," she stared at the ground, "I guess I'm no worse off here than with John. But this… Red Elk will never know it." She chided herself. She also resigned herself that if she had to have relations with him, it could be like with John, she'd lay still, and he'd take her. Simple the getting on and getting off. Yes, it might work out. But why did she feel cheated of something she knew so little about?
Red Elk's people frowned at her, when she tried to work alongside them. But she had to admit, they were not hostile to her like the Comanche women had been. For that she was grateful. If they spoke English, she wasn't aware of it, so it was hard to get along. But unlike the Comanche they did not hate or resent her. They did not mistreat her in any way, and she was silently grateful for that. She hauled water, cooked, and washed clothes, the first two days.
Red Elk was gone overnight the first day and Naomi was lost as what to do. No one came inside the wickiup. No one checked on her. Nothing. She didn't really mind, but it was so different here than the Comanche camp. At the Comanche camp someone was always watching her every move.
On the second day, Red Elk still hadn't returned, and she was hanging the wash. No one was around. She decided it was time to try to escape. He wasn't here to stop her, and no one else would care.
It wasn't a planned escape. She hadn't thought about what she was doing, where she would go, and what story she might tell the white people that she was bound to run into.
She ran, ran for what seemed like miles. No one followed that she saw. She wore an Indian buckskin dress, and what would the whites think of her like this? She wore no shoes as they hurt her feet to put anything against them. There was nothing she could do about it. She had nothing to change into, her yellow dress was in ruins.
She remembered Mary Powell, a young woman that had been captured by the Apache and lived with them a year when white trappers found her and brought her back, her white husband would not have her. The townspeople shunned her. She died a couple of years later, as she had to leave her Indian baby when they took her from the tribe. They told her no decent white man would have her with an Indian baby. The truth was, no white man with have with or without a child. They said she talked of going back to the Indians. Naomi thought that strange, but then after John brought his two new wives' home, it wasn't so strange after all. Escape was all she thought about.
Could she go back to John? Did she even want to go back? Would John and his wives shun her too? And if they did, what would happen to her? She couldn't think on that right now, she had to escape first. John might not be alive now. And his wives, what happened to them, she wondered. The same Indians that took her, either killed them or took them, but she saw no sign of their taking them. So, what did happen to them? No, she wouldn't return, but she realized quickly that Red Elk was right, no decent white man would have her if they knew she'd been with the Indians so long. When she thought about it, her life seemed doomed.
How did one change their circumstance?
And most importantly, how did one go about fitting back into a society that would not accept where she'd come from?
Maybe John and the women had escaped and gone to the Nebraska Territory. Or maybe they were killed, and she was a free woman. She might never know.
How would she ever know unless she went back to Texas to find them? It all seemed so hopeless.
The way she saw it, the only thing she could do was make another life for herself somewhere.
She had to quit thinking so much and get on with her escape.
During her stay with the Comanche, she hadn't been accosted, but who would believe that? The Comanche women that were so mean to her, prevented the men from taking her. Realizing that, stunned her. They actually saved her from being raped.
Her future didn't look very bright now either. She'd run away without thinking it out. What she hadn't thought of was what she might tell the people there, if she did make it to the fort that Red Elk always talk about. She didn't know where that fort might be either.
Like the remoteness of some parts of Texas, Arizona was sparsely populated except by Indians.
One question piled on top of others as she made her way across the desert alone. Was she going in the right direction? What should she tell them
once she made it to the Camp Tucson? And if they did not accept her or help her, what would she do there?
She had to try, didn't she?
But she was caught quickly by Red Elk that evening as the sun was going down, who had finally returned. His eyes pinned her, and she missed his ready smile.
"So, you ran away," he firmed his lips and frowned at her as she stumbled upon him.
"I'm white, I'm a captive, why wouldn't I?" she scrunched up her face in a frown.
"I treat you decently and you run away. Perhaps I should be rougher on you, not give you so much liberty." He told her, his soft voice sterner now and unbending.
He stayed on his horse, but he looped a rope around her and had her walk back. It was a long trip, and her feet hurt and bled.
She trudged back, stumbling several times. She'd shoot him an ugly frown every now and then, but he was unaffected.
"I have spoken to the soldiers about this religion. The Mormons. You were right. You did not lie. I found out that there are a couple of groups of them here in Arizona too. One camp runs a ferry on the Colorado River. I did not know that until I asked though. I've never run into any here."
"You thought I lied?" She gave him a weary glance.
"It occurred to me, yes."
"I don't lie if I can help it."
"I am glad to hear it. Yes, I talked to several who knew them. It was an interesting conversation to say the least. I can understand why you are not anxious to get back to this white husband of yours. It would seem the Comanche's did you a favor, did they not?"
She looked down now, "Yes, they did… " she mumbled.
"You say that with regret?"
"I'm not proud of my feelings. I know I was not a good wife. Even though I had no say in the Comanche taking me, I was glad. And, I'm not proud of it. I am ashamed of how I feel. I am sorry for my white husband. He is my husband, but I entered into that marriage with many hopes and dreams. Obviously, he does not pay to be a dreamer."
He studied her now, and her words. "Yes, I suppose not. Now, tell me why you ran away."
"You've been gone for two days, I wasn't sure you were coming back. You didn't say where you were going. You are an Indian, for all I knew you were dead!" She told him, as she stumbled on a rock. "I was not going to stay and be traded to someone else. There has to be an end to being pushed and pulled in every direction."
He stopped and waited until she was able to move on. "My apologies for not informing you of my plans. I often stay overnight at the Camp. Sometimes I gamble too much. but many conversations can be learned by playing poker."
She almost laughed, "So cards are one of your vices?"
"You could say that, yes." He smiled, "but my purpose for playing is not money. I seek knowledge and it is a good way to engage people to talk. People say things they don't even realize they are saying when involved in a game of cards."
She made a guffaw sound. "I'm sure."
When she arrived back at the camp, he pushed her into the wickiup.
She fell to the ground and fumbled with her feet, they hurt so bad, she could hardly walk, and he had forced her to walk all the way back. Tears clouded her vision, but she would not allow them to fall.
"Where were you going?" he asked later that day when he came inside for some water, his voice softening on her as he saw her rubbing her feet. He knew her feet hurt. He felt guilty for making her walk, but he was angry that she would run away so quickly when he had treated her with understanding.
"I was just going… I wanted to be free. That's all. Like I said, I wasn't sure you were coming back. I didn't know what to do."
"Free, free from what? You have not slaved for me, or married me, what freedom do you seek?"
"One I haven't been able to use in some time, choice." Her words were cutting.
He shook his head in dismay. "If they'd have seen you in that dress, they wouldn't have wanted you back. Do you not understand this? You are a beautiful woman, but they would treat you like dirt, thinking you had been with an Indian. It is not something I have made up to scare you, it is the truth. I do not lie, either Naomi. No more than you. It is not in me to lie. Even if you made it to Camp Tucson, what would you tell them? And even so, what would they do with you?" His reasoning was sound, and she couldn't argue. He came closer. "They think Indians are dirty, sinful people. Even if you told them differently, they wouldn't believe you. Many have tried and failed."
She nodded miserably. "I understand that, but I don't accept it. How can I accept it, I am white! I have to fight back, I have to run, it's expected."
He nodded, "No, in reality, they expect you to kill yourself. Some things are hard to accept, I agree. And it is true, your life here will be different. But the choice you have is to make it a good life or a bad one."
She frowned and shut up.
"Since you refuse to behave, I must tell you of what they have done to others. Other's I've seen for myself. Most of them still live at the Camp, as their families don't want them back. It isn't the nicest place for a woman like that to be. Mostly only soldiers live there. Some do laundry for the soldiers. Some are whores, and unfortunately, some are both. None are happy that have gone back. It is something I see often, and I feel bad for those women. It is not right to scorn a woman for choosing to live. Some even want to return to the Indians as they were treated better there. I do not wish this on you. But this is what happens. The Comanche took you against your will. Even Bear Foot gave you no choices. I took you, so you wouldn't be mistreated. Bear Foot means no harm, but he's rough around the edges."
"Actually, at the time, I didn't put up a fight when they took me. Shamefully, I was glad of the escape."
"You wanted to escape your husband that badly?" he asked softly.
"Why don't you say it. I'm a sinful, ugly woman who wanted no more of her husband. Yes, I wanted to escape him."
"I am sorry for that. I am sorry your life was so miserable with your own kind. Perhaps you will find life here a bit better. But Naomi, you must understand something. The white man cannot accept the fact that a white woman would submit herself to an Indian, and they are under the assumption that all white women do submit to Indians when captured, if they don't kill themselves. What they don't understand is that in time people do adjust to things. White women that have been captured have gone on to have happy lives with the Indians. But then, if a white man comes and takes her away from what he thinks is her misery, she is lost again. They expect you to kill yourself. Which isn't reasonable." He stared into her shocked face. "A stupid expectation. Mainly because there are so many half -breed children in the camps where they are rescued. When one is subjected to another culture, one tries to survive. I am sure you tried to survive your white husbands' marriage and found it impossible. But even then, you did not kill yourself. Killing oneself is an easy out. Many white women have had to leave their breed children at the Indian camps and go on with their white lives. They are never happy to leave their children, because despite it all, they love those children. Once the children are born, the race ceases to exist."
Naomi listened, and her expression was one of sympathy and insight into the man before her. He was intelligent. "I can't imagine something so sad."
Naomi knew he spoke the truth. She had seen a few herself.
She hung her head. He was right, she knew it, but something told her she should fight to be free. To accept her fate here was not something she thought to do. It was her duty to find a way to escape. She rubbed the salve he had given her on her feet now. It soothed, and she sighed, trying to hold her head up, trying to hold her tears.
It was hard to admit that he was telling the truth, but he had.
He began to whittle, and she watched him despite the fact that she was mad at him.
"What are you making?" she finally asked. Amused that he was always busy doing something.
"A flute." He smiled. It was long and beautifully crafted, and she couldn't wait until he finished. Music was something
she enjoyed.
"My father used to have a fiddle and he'd play it for us in the evening sometimes. All of us kids loved it and we'd clown around and dance. We enjoyed it, very much." She smiled in remembrance.
"A fiddle? I am glad you like music." He told her with a smile.
Still, it was a strange thing for him to be doing when he was obviously angry with her for running away.
That smile brought sunshine into the drab wickiup. It transformed his face into something she hadn't expected, a very handsome man. She hated that she found him so handsome, but it was the truth. She'd never seen a man built so well. She'd never seen a sexier smile. Strange that she should think in that direction, but she did. John rarely smiled. He never joked and cut up with her. He was a very serious man. To see an Indian smile made her relax just a little.
She couldn't help but stare at him. He was such a handsome man. She wished he wasn't so handsome, for looking at him did things to her. Red Elk had a firm, stubborn jaw, more white than Indian, for he didn't have a big nose or high cheekbones like many of this tribe. And despite all her inner feelings on the subject, she was attracted to his good humor and fast smiles. She hadn't known many men with a sense of humor. And his voice, was gentle and soft, pleasant to listen to.
She had tried not to notice so many things about Red Elk, but she did. He was built strong, big, tall, and he had arms that looked as though they could fell a tree with one stroke. Although his skin was tan, he was quite different from the others.
Her mind rejected his good looks. He was an Indian, that's all he was. And she would not look upon his handsomeness.
Still, every now and then, she'd glance at him. Seeing that broad, tan, and hairless chest, his devilishly handsome face and that quick smile. He was completely attractive. And she hated herself for noticing. But she reckoned some things couldn't stay hidden.
When he finished making the flute, he played a tune and she stared now. It was a lovely ballad, it sounded romantic and was easy on the ears. He played well.